


An Afternoon Manicure

by GreenGold



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 11:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16196723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenGold/pseuds/GreenGold
Summary: Junkrat pampers Mercy.





	An Afternoon Manicure

**Author's Note:**

> A short one shot inspired by my realization that Junkrat's human nails are painted black on his beachrat skin.

Angela sat expectantly, perched on the edge of the sofa. She was in Jamison's apartment, alone in the living room. There were sounds of rummaging in the adjacent hall: a metal hand scraping wooden shelves, plastic bins sliding, a stack of linens hitting the carpeted floor, a whispered curse. She permitted herself a small smile before surveying her current surroundings.

The living room looked disorganized, as it always did. The coffee table not quite parallel to the sofa and television, the rug revealing where he had dragged the table legs closer to the right side of the sofa to use as an ottoman while watching a game. Crumpled paper and an empty wrapper kept each other company on the ground, just beside a trash bin. A single sock rested on the back of the sofa, its partner on the floor. Both likely tossed there after work earlier in the week. His workbench in the far corner with all manner of tools and metal bits left out. It looked like there was a bowl on the workbench as well. Left there from today's breakfast? Perhaps last night's dinner? Hard to say. It looked like there was a new burn mark on the sofa. She worried the mark with her index finger, coating it in a thin layer of ash.

“Here we go!” Jamison laughed, finally walking into the living room where Angela sat. He set his prize, a rolled yellow towel, onto the coffee table in front of her.

“You know,” Angela teased, “if you just let me help tidy one of these days...”

Jamison lightly snorted, “Tryin' to get out of this again, eh? S'not the flat I can't keep straight anyways, it's me head.”

He took a seat on the floor, across the table from her.

“Now let's see those pretty little hands!”

Angela slid from the sofa down to the floor and presented her hands. Jamison gingerly took her right hand with his cool, metal one and lifted it to his face. He dipped his head to kiss her knuckles, meeting her eyes while he did so. Angela felt a sudden rush of warmth blooming in her stomach, then just as quickly it retreated as he pulled his head back to examine her nails.

“Not so pretty up close! Who knew the beautiful Doctor Ziegler had such filthy hands. No wonder you always wear gloves. We'll still need to start with a little wash,” Jamison announced.

“Pot meet kettle?” Angela quipped, raising an eyebrow while she glanced down at Jamison's blackened hands.

“We're not doing mine today.”

“You know, we don't need to do mine today either. The gloves and hand washing will have it chipping in a few short days.”

“It's not just about looks, it's about the ritual. 'S relaxing.”

Jamison gave her hand a small squeeze before letting go. He stood and walked out of the room, hands reaching up to tap the door frame as he walked into the kitchen. Angela frowned. The fitted black shirt he wore concealed the flex of his shoulders, compared to his usual shirtless attire. Thankfully, the grey joggers he wore took pity and offered a conciliatory view. Her eyes lingered until he was out of sight.

Ah, not today Ziegler.

Angela pulled her hands back to examine them herself. The ash-blackened finger wasn't the only problem. Her nails were due for a trim. Most had curry stains from the previous evening's dinner and one was starting to chip. Her hands were dry too. She was constantly putting on nitrile gloves, removing them, and washing her hands in both the lab and patient rooms. Even her Valkyrie suit had gloves. Although she tried to vigilantly use lotion, she had been negligent as of late. Jamison was right. Her hands were dirty.

He returned from the kitchen. He set a bowl of water and a couple of dispensers down on the coffee table before lowering himself to the ground. Jamison unrolled the yellow towel between them, revealing a manicure set. He grabbed a small, white hand towel in his human hand and squeezed a bit of soap onto it. After dipping it in the water, he beckoned for Angela's right wrist with his metal hand. He began the cleaning by gently scrubbing the warm towel on the top of her hand, arguably the cleanest part, before continuing onto her palm, her fingers, her other hand. Angela watched as the small towel took on new colors. The feint yellow of turmeric, prominent grey from the recent ash, a mysterious blooming black likely from the residue on Jamison's own hands. Noticing that, it was impressive he'd managed to keep any towels this white for this long. Most fabric in his flat were proud, stained displays of his mechanical hobbies.

“Rinse,” he commanded, allowing her to withdraw her hands.

Angela complied, dipping her hands into the bowl of still-warm water. She pushed the larger suds off, watched the bubbles glide across the water before they popped. A few more dips and her hands were clean. She let them sit in the water for a couple more minutes, creating little undercurrents, halfheartedly trying to scrub the yellow from her nails and enjoying the warmth. Eventually, she took her hands out and let them rest on an unoccupied part of the large, yellow towel. Jamison motioned for her to apply some moisturizer, then hooked a metal finger around the bowl's rim and pulled it towards him. Using his human hand, he dunked the stained towel into the water and used it to crudely clean his own hand.

Where both of Angela's hands had fit comfortably in the bowl, Jamison's single human hand was clearly short on space. Another visible reminder of their size difference. Although Angela generally enjoyed being taller than most women, she adored how petite she felt next to Jamison. After decades of embracing her height and accentuating it with heels, it was refreshing to feel dwarfed by a romantic partner. It made her feel daintier, more feminine, especially when his hands could encircle her waist and...

“'Kay! Let's have a look at those cuticles.”

Jamison's harsh voice shocked Angela out of her thoughts. It was clear from his inflection that he'd caught her staring. She jerked her head down to look at her hands, letting her bangs hang in front of her reddening cheeks.

“Embarrassed?” Jamison teased. He met her eyes and smirked, “I'd be too, if mine looked like this.”

Angela couldn't bring herself to laugh at his sanctimonious banter or correct him on the technical definition of cuticle. She hummed and looked away, cheeks turning a deeper shade of scarlet. Jamison laughed. She knew he could read her blush, her actions. She was attempting to rein it in. He'd been wanting to give her a manicure for months, but she'd insisted on less wholesome activities each time. This was his day, she reminded herself. She took a deep breath in and sat up straighter to watch him work.

His hands worked quickly and gently as they used an orange stick to gently push at the base of her nails. His whole body seemed to curl around her while he worked. Head hung over her hands, lanky arms rested on either side of the table between them, his long legs astride hers, back hunched over. She bit her tongue to avoid remarking on his posture. Although he rarely complained and the desire to correct it came from a good place, today wasn't the day. She was supposed to be relaxing.

Jamison moved onto clipping her nails. She barely felt it. His hands were unusually steady, just as they always were at his workbench. Mind singularly focused and body relaxed: no fingers idly drumming, no foot tapping, no eyes darting. Angela loved seeing him like this. He seemed happiest when he was tinkering with something. Well, no, perhaps this was just where he was most relaxed. Jamison was undoubtedly happiest in the chaos of battle: launching grenades, detonating mines, sending his beloved RIP-Tire behind enemy lines. Despite her disapproval of his methods, she privately admitted he had a certain, wicked beauty in combat.

He set down the clippers and picked up a file. Angela looked up at him. He didn't return her stare.

Really, she thought to herself, his charm, in character and appearance, was all a little wicked. A bit devilish, a bit impish. Oh! Impish was an excellent word for him. His inclination towards trouble, with all the energy and nonchalance of youth. It described his looks well too. The sharp angles of his nose, brow ridge, chin, and cheekbones. His smoldering eyes and burnt hair. The widow's peak, forged in his childhood by radiation-induced epilation. His exceptionally pointed canines. The skull and crossbones on his shoulder. His shirtless battle uniform, she thought as her eyes trailed down, flaunting his six pack and Adonis belt. Ah, see! She was compelled to mischief just by being near him. She returned her gaze to his angular face.

“You're quite handsome, Jamison,” Angela ventured with only a hint of a blush. She didn't compliment him nearly enough. He deserved to hear it.

“Ta,” he said simply, and raised his eyebrows.

“Truly,” Angela insisted. Then, she couldn't help herself, “In a bit of an impish way.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrowed and hands tensed.

“If you're trying to goad me into teaching you a lesson, s'not happenin'. Not yet. Haven't even started with the polish.”

“Oh?” Right. Today was for manicures.

“Chyeah. Even picked up special colors for Miss Mercy.”

“Not your matte black?”

“Nah. Don't suit ya.”

“And what does suit me?”

“You'll see.”

He motioned for her hands and started with the base coat. Angela continued to be slightly impressed by how good he was at manicuring. She supposed it made sense, as his nails were always painted black despite the warfare and tinkering. Truthfully, she had initially thought his nails were just dirty like the rest of his hands. It fit her impression of how often he bathed and how little he seemed to care about his appearance. It wasn't until he'd really cleaned up and they'd spent a holiday on a beach that she realized his black nails were a conscious aesthetic choice. Even now they were black, absent of chips. He must have done them recently.

After he finished applying base coat to her first hand, he paused.

“Never tried doing it from this angle. Issa little tricky. Mind if we change our approach?”

Angela nodded in agreement.

Jamison replaced the cap of the base coat and pushed himself up. Stepping over the coffee table, he tossed himself onto the sofa behind her, crossed his legs, and patted his lap.

“C'mere!”

She climbed into his lap wordlessly, her back to his chest. His arms reached around and he resumed the application of base coat on her other hand. If his speed and precision were impressive before, it was a remarkable sight now. He finished her second hand well before a minute has passed and capped the base coat. Removing an arm from around her, he reached over the arm of the sofa to pull a pedestal fan closer. He turned it on and held her hands up in front of the blades.

“You're quite good at this,” Angela marveled. “How often do you do this?”

“The polish?”

“Mhmm.”

“Ooooh, it depends. Depends on what I've been doin' that day. Weekly if it's slow. Nearly nightly if I'm chippin' 'em too much.”

“Wow,” Angela admired, “all that practice. So that's why your hands are so nimble.”

She chanced a devious little look back at him.

“Ya better stop with that. Still need the color. And the top coat.”

Angela made a show of pouting before turning back.

“Anyways, that's not why I'm so quick. I've automated it. Wrote a little program for this bloke,” he said, waving his prosthetic hand. “Had to reapply polish so often it just made more sense. 'S why it was fast as when you sat in my lap, that's the angle I need to run it properly.”

Angela's eyebrows raised in surprise and she tilted her head back to peer up at him.

“That's remarkable!” It seemed she learned something new about him each day.

“Tch. S'not the only thing I've automated.”

Angela gasped and turned to face him. A naughty smile curled its way across her lips.

“Don' wanna hear it. Still gotta add that color. Already got somethin' in the works for your birthday.”

She turned back towards the fan and beamed. Their conversation returned to the executable functions he had created for his prosthetic. The pair continued chatting about the the finer aspects of coding while waiting for her base coat to dry. Finally, he tapped the tops of her nails and deemed them ready for the color. Jamison reached between them, into the pocket of his joggers, and pulled out two bottles of polish.

“Glossy white and a clear coat with gold glitter, perfect for an angel like yaself!”

“Perhaps more white than gold?” Angela suggested. The gold was pretty, but more ostentatious than she preferred.

“'Course!” came the exclamation, in mock offense, “doncha think I know you well enough by now?”

Angela sat quietly while he ran the program to paint her nails with two coats of white polish. It was nice to spend time together like this: no combat, no work, little conversation, the ambient noise of gadgets around his flat. It was meditative, watching him work and enjoying the warmth of his body in a nonsexual way. Well, a mostly nonsexual way. She understood why he enjoyed painting his nails, couldn't believe it had taken her this long to allow him to share it with her. She knew they'd do it again, hoped it could become a regular part of their weekends together.

After the white coats dried, Jamison added the gold glitter nail polish freehand.

Angela admired her nails. Primarily white with modest accents of golden glitter, as promised. They were pretty and neat, even the freehand portion. A small surprise from someone who sewed patches on his favorite shorts so haphazardly and with so few stitches. Perhaps that ornamentation was a conscious aesthetic choice too. Maybe there was always some order to his chaos and she just hadn't seen it. Or maybe her careful approach to life had left a mark.

She turned her nails so they dazzled in the sunlight. A curious thing that she actually liked something as flamboyant as glitter on her nails. It wasn't so long ago that she never would have entertained decorating herself in such a way, would've stopped with a plain white coat. Was it something hidden he saw in her and drew out? Or a spark planted in her by his own vibrant blaze?

Jamison swiped the gold across one of his matte black nails while he waited for hers to dry. He lifted his left hand up between her hands. White and black, now both with gold. Maybe it wasn't the influence of just one half. Maybe this was how they evolved together.


End file.
